Psych
by huggs5
Summary: John is sentenced to a Psych Ward after Sherlock's death, unable to handle himself against hallucinations and daily nightmares. -Hopefully an ongoing series, requests and prompts welcomed-
1. Grooves

**I wrote this a few days ago after my friend told me about a weird dream she had about a psych ward and paint falling off of the wall to form words, and got a decent response. So I put it on hereeeee. Ily you guys. **

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><p>John Watson stood, swaying slightly, at the cold walls of his cell at the psychiatric ward<em>, watching as little chips of metal and paint flicked off of it and fluttered to the ground around his bare feet. <em>The reason he was in here? He didn't know any more, but the images of Sherlock Holmes's death plagued his nightmares. Blood splattered across the walls of his imagination and dripping slowly into his concious mind. He stared up at the wall, the paint flecks were gone, but his fingers still trembled as he raised them to the wall_, tracing said fingers over the scratches. 'He will fall' _John made an audible gasp _as the words filled with the blood, the blood on the pavement. Dark red and glistening and flowing, dripping down the wall. _He gripped the side of his bed tightly, his knuckles going white.

_Please can you do this for me?_

The color drained from his face when he looked up at _the figure standing right in front of him. Blood covered one side of it's head and it's hair was curly and dark. _A sob suddenly escaped his throat and he collapsed to the ground._He felt a hand on his shoulder, but he didn't look up. He didn't want to, in case this wasn't real. It felt real, it felt so real. _He looked around, seeing nothing standing next to him. The hand disappeared. Emotion crushed him and he doubled over, hiding his face in his hands as a low whine whistled between his teeth. Not again, not again. His chest tightened, constricting his breathing. He felt sick and clammy and his hands wouldn't stop shaking.  
>"Sherlock!" a name heard almost every night, echoing through the halls, accompanied by sobbing and followed by a night in the safe room.<br>_Sherlock leaned down to him, his face void of emotion, his eyes empty and lifeless. But John relished in his presence, no matter how dead he may be. Sherlock placed one hand on John's trembling shoulder and lifted his chin with the other hand. John looked into Sherlock's eyes, his vision blurred with tears.  
><em>"Sherlock, y-you came…" his voice was tight and sore.  
><em>"I always come for you," Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to John's forehead <em>enticing a shiver from the smaller man and stabilizing his breathing. _"Be strong for me, John. Can you do that for me?"  
><em> John nodded and _took Sherlock's hand. Entwining their fingers together and pulling Sherlock in closer. Suddenly, and without warning, the image of Sherlock **disappeared**_. John's hand clutched around open air, spiralling him back into a panic attack.

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><p><strong>I dedicate this to all the people who've reviewed all my other stories C:<strong>

**never-to-see**

**timeywimey27**

**akisura12**

**Sky Writes**

**And a few more anons. Msg me if I forgot you!**


	2. Hallucinate

**Next chapter C: I write these as PROMPTS come in, or if I get some inspiration.**

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><p>John was perched on the edge of his seat, his toes really the only thing supporting him. He wasn't sure what he was doing, but all he could imagine was looking down at the pavement from the top of the building. He was upset, of course he was. Hallucinating and throwing things across the padded walls, chasing after an imaginary Sherlock.<p>

Because Sherlock was still there, he could still see him. And to John, he was still alive and still standing around him, making crude remarks at his work or Anderson or Sally.

But Lestrade, who was the one that brought him here in the first place, knew the truth. But he couldn't make John believe it. He had checked him in within two weeks of Sherlock's demise because he had quickly deteriorated, he stayed up for days at a time, drinking copious amounts of coffee or alcohol to stay awake. He seemed determined to catch Sherlock coming back through the door. Mycroft had tried to reason with him on more than one occasion, but the Army Doctor would collapse into his arms screaming and crying.

Mrs. Hudson knew things were getting out of hand when John started talking to the air, actually discussing old cases and laughing about them. She felt sorry for him, but she wouldn't ever disturb him in those moments. Because she was sure that he was watching his imaginary Sherlock. The one time she had to disrupt him was when Stamford had dropped around at about day 8. He had stared up at him, looked back at 'Sherlock' before glancing between them frantically. Stamford was also worried.

But now, John hadn't touched his food. The cafeteria in the Institution was large and clean and white. John didn't like it at all. It reminded him of the funeral, everyone was so clean and crisp and... lifeless, colorless. This wasn't the first meal he had neglected, either immediately or later on when he just couldn't stop, he had skipped at least two days worth of meals now.

And he had given up.

He came back to reality, staring down at the tiled floor and sitting back in his seat. He sighed through his nose and started eating the bland salad laid out before him. With another sigh he put his fork down and stopped.  
>"John... Watson. You need to eat honey," a nurse picked up the fork and squashed some food onto it.<br>He shook his head, "Don' feel like it."  
>The nurse shook her head, "Eat up, Mr. W-"<br>"Doctor. I'm still a Doctor," John snapped, turning cold eyes up at her.  
>"<em>Doctor<em> Watson. Then you know what happens if you don't eat."  
>"Sherlock went days without eating. He was fine," he ground his teeth, making sure not to open his mouth too far in case she tried to force food into him.<p>

All the nurses knew who Sherlock was.

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><p><strong>There you go C:<strong>


	3. Let Go?

**It's torture for you all. Ily**

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><p>A part of John didn't want to let go, a part of him wanted to hold tightly to all his grief for Sherlock and tuck it safely under his pillow where he will always be able to see it. But he knew that was absurd, it was natural for one to let go eventually.<p>

In group therapy, John didn't talk, he just sat there and listened. To the untrained eye he could walk right out of the hospital and be perfectly fine, he never bothered to show any emotion any more. It was too much of an effort to make everyone go away and shut up and stop asking him questions. This time however, he spoke.  
>"Would you like to say anything this time, John?" the over-friendly nurse asked him, pointing her pen in his general direction.<br>John pursed his lips before locking his fingers together in his lap and glancing around at the ten other patients sitting in the circle, waiting. "Uh, h-hello."  
>A younger girl smiled at him and answered, "Hello."<br>John looked across at her uncertainly and returned her smile, "I- um."  
>The nurse urged him on with her hands.<br>"We're open ears John," a man that John had been talking to the other day at dinner -who's name he cannot remember for the life of him- he was older than him and had wispy grey hair. He was an old war veteran.  
>John went on, "I had a friend, a- a best friend. Who- who killed himself. Three months ago. He was Sh-" he shut his eyes. The hurt hadn't left him. "Sherlock H-Holmes. He wasn't a fake. I can tell you that much… right now. And uh- uh, I've been in here for almost all that time."<br>The room was silent, everyone around there knew who Sherlock was. They heard his name screamed in the middle of the night and they heard it mentioned when the nurses talked to each other. Though John hardly 'talked' to him anymore, he still hallucinated occasionally. It was more the fact that the nurses wanted him to let go before they would let him out.


End file.
